bellicose symphony
by axoplasmic
Summary: His pride is his crew. It's the bite of a gash crossing his spine, pain beyond mere flesh arcing in a dolorous glissando. {prompt: "he does get scars on his back, in the end." zoro and the sacrifices he'd make for his crew. au pretty much i guess? cross-posted on ao3. not beta read}


The world chimes with melodies of strength and drumming battle. Zoro is a fighter – this is his song. Exalted crescendos of his swords singing through the air, the polyphonic timbres of his crew at his back, ballads of gore and glory: they echo in his ears and heart, painting the world in tonal colors of combat. They are what propel Zoro toward what he lives for.

His dream.

To be _the_ _best_ ; the greatest the world has ever seen. For the heavens to forever remember the taste of his name, for the land to syncopate with his presence, for the seas and skies to herald him in resounding fortissimo. The cadence of that goal influences every moment of his life, because what is the purpose of a life that the world will forget? Does a man awaken _every day_ to actualize an existence that no one recognizes once that life ends? The continuous andante of his lifetime – each moment he has trained, each bond he has formed, each time he has failed and failed and _failed_ , each time he has succeeded, each semitone drop of blood, or sweat, or tears he has shed that have accumulated into _gallons_ during his time alive – all of it worth nothing.

 _Zoro would rather die._

His pride will not let him fail. It will not let the harmony of his skill become dissonant, will not let the descant of his soul slow for even a moment, will not let him be powerless.

 **Never again.**

His pride is his strength as a swordsman. His pride is his honor. It's his ability to stand before the nonpareil and bare his chest to one of the Twelve Greatest, black blade knelling out a nocturne as it leaves its indelible mark. His pride is his loyalty. His pride is his Captain. It's the way he bows at Bartholomew Kuma's feet, willing to sacrifice his ambition, his life, _his dream_ , for the man who will become King.

His pride is his crew. It's the bite of a gash crossing his spine, pain beyond mere flesh arcing in a dolorous glissando.

The synchronized medley of their fights die out, dynamics plunging into dazed silence. Zoro grits his teeth and with a single whirl of his weapons, he picks up their orchestra, enemy muscle sliced cleanly in the wake of his blades' legato melody. He pivots into each slash, relishing how they sustain. Because his swords were engaged and Usopp was unarmed, open to enemy attack ( _he would have died_ ). Because all Zoro had to do was _shift_ and he would be safe. Because the steady tempo that acts as a segue between his ambitions and his happiness thrums from his crew. Because his world is eminence and honor and _his family_.

In unison they cry out, the vibrato exclamation something like an opus to Zoro. Usopp's falsetto of bravery and cunning fall, face pallor as he begins to shake. Chopper's sobs are staccato in contrast to the rhythm of Franky's shocked bellowing, and there's a still beauty in Nami's sonorous gasp as Robin lifts her hand to her mouth, her silence a melancholy piece of its own. Brooke belts out an opera, bones and cloth rubbing together, rattling around dramatically. Sanji's elegy, shrouded in smoke and ash, is rasped into a cigarette halved by his teeth.

Luffy, however, skips a good few beats. Staring at Zoro, his eyes perform a fugue of his crew's oeuvre, but he says nothing. His own fermata lasts until the very last note rings out from the Straw Hats.

Then he _acts_.

The battleground is devastated in his path of anger, retribution paid for the tears of their crewmembers and Zoro's own loss. It starts and ends a cappella, the only sound his labored breath. Zoro thinks to smile, or say something, but suddenly he's swathed in warm arms and cries of apology. Regret for not noticing, not being quick enough, for being too weak, too involved in another fight. Choppers shaking hooves are cool on his back and the cut stings even though he's had worse, because this one is so much deeper than flesh or bone. It reaches down to his soul, his pride, _his_ _dream –_

and though he's not a believer, _God_ _does it hurt_.

But his crew is there with him, teary eyed and loving, and he would give up everything for them; as he sits there looking back at them, Usopp's forehead on the ground before him, he realizes that anything he gives up isn't a sacrifice at all. He would surrender to death itself if it meant they were safe. He grabs the sniper by the overall straps and makes him stand.

"We're nakama," he says, not quite recognizing the capriccio hum in his voice.


End file.
